


Numbers (they're for more than just counting)

by AeronaKorrie



Series: From Zero to Thirty [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: (Until it's not), Bullying, Canon Compliant, Child Abandonment, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Family History, Gen, Happy Ending, IF YOU WANT HAPPY IGNORE THE BRACKETS, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mentions of Arson, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Parent-Child Relationship, Reid Family, Reid Family Feels, Schizophrenia, Season/Series 10 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3888895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeronaKorrie/pseuds/AeronaKorrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One, two, three.<br/>Two, four, six.<br/>Three, six, nine. </p><p>Numbers are great for counting, but they're more than that. </p><p>Threes (they're for the important things)<br/>Twos (are always in control)<br/>Ones (reveal our priorities)</p><p>But maybe you can raise the count, or lower it if you need. (Or maybe you'll just get stuck)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numbers (they're for more than just counting)

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a follow up to Zero to Thirty, but its standalone.

His mind started working in threes at a young age. (But only for the important things) 

His very first teacher had OCD. He doubts any of the other children remember her but, thanks to his eidetic memory, he could never forget. Never forget the way she would organize the desks into three rows, with three desks pushed together so there were three columns as well. She must have loved having exactly twenty seven students that year, just enough to organize. Her name was Ms. Kanou, and she always counted in threes. Every time something didn’t fit into that pattern she would freak out, have panic attacks and occasionally throw things at them. Needless to say she didn’t last to the next year. 

She wasn’t all bad, in fact Spencer remembered one day when she put him on her lap, bouncing him on each leg exactly three times before switching and giving him three of her fingers to play with. For all the genius he was, he was curious about her clear obsession with the number and mustered up enough courage to ask her why she wanted everything to be in threes.

“You see sweetie,” was her tender start, “The important things come in threes. Everything in the world. If it matters it comes in threes. So why waste time on any other number?” Honestly it didn’t make too much sense to him at the time, but as soon as he got home he went up to his mom and asked her, for research, what came in threes.

She sat him on her own lap, bouncing him up and down, (not in that soothing pattern of threes) and proceeded to speak. His mother told him about all sorts of things, the three little pigs and the three bears, the three bones in the human ear and the three cones in the human eye. She weaves him stories about cerberus, the three headed dog, and a chimera made up of three parts (a lion, goat, and snake). They read Macbeth together, and point out the three witches. “And of course, the most important of threes, you, me, and daddy,” she finishes off before tickling his stomach, him giggling in glee.

Ms. Kanou would sit him on her lap every day from then on, whispering into each ear three times, “Remember Spencer, the important things come in threes.” Every time he’d mouth the words along with her, rolling his tongue to that number and he started to understand. (He came to class near the end of the year, and when they were told Ms. Kanou couldn’t come back because she was too sick, he started to cry, only letting out three sobs in her honour)

Years later, in the middle of times of panic or stress, he’ll close his eyes and think of things of threes, they calm his whirling mind. In middle of times the job is hard, where he doesn’t know what to do he thinks of another set of three, hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil. The simple mantra reminding him one of the reasons he joined the BAU in the first place.

Even in the darkest times of his life, like being kidnapped and drugged, he points out the threes. (Tobias Hankel, Charles Hankel, and Raphael) He lets it spin around his head taking him out of the moment and back on that bouncing lap, up and down, in sequences of threes.

Things came in threes, and apparently for Spencer Reid, losing parents wasn’t an exception. While at this point it probably could be considered more than three, as his mother was lost so many times, he didn’t count her. At the end of the day, or even a week - and that one horrible terrible month he wishes he could forget - she was still his mother and she was still there. (Besides, he’s the one who left her, sending her off as soon as he could.)

First up was his biological father, with a letter left on the kitchen table and walking out the door without turning back. Sure he’d gotten his father back now, with a weekly phone call and an occasional visit, but it wasn’t the same. At the age of thirty three (and what a glorious number) you don’t really need your father anymore. Not like when you are young. He didn’t need his father anymore, not like he did when he was twelve and being strapped to the goal post. Not like he did when his mother would throw her pills at him or when he stared out from the stage - more than once - and no one was sitting in the audience for him. Sure his father was here now, just a phone call away, but he wasn’t when it mattered.

Next came (left) Gideon, again leaving with just a letter, but there was one big difference. He never came back. Spencer had looked up to Gideon, he was the one to inspire him to join the BAU and always called him “Dr. Reid” just so everyone else would look at him in respect, and not like he was just a mere child. Gideon had replaced his father when he needed one, when he was addicted to dilaudid and freshly off being tortured, but he left. Just like his biological one, his surrogate father had left in the night, leaving behind just a series of written words for him and him alone. This one hurt more, for as much as William was his father, they never truly got along, not like he and Gideon did. There was no chance for reunion though, not after the case a few weeks ago, with his old mentor’s body cold and unmoving on the floor.

Finally number three, the one to complete his trifecta of lost parents, Blake had to leave. She had instantly reminded him of his mother with her intelligence and how she worried over him, she even seemed to share that same smile. Blake had always treated him like a son, even calling him by her own lost son’s name while she was cradling his head. Her voice had cut through the darkness, her worried voice calling him Ethan. He had felt guilty at first, that he saw her as a mother, after all he had abandoned his own. Blake had given him a goodbye, she had actually said her farewell in person, unlike her predecessors. He quickly saw how much worse it was. He realised just how much he had appreciated the distance of a letter, and how it allowed him to hide his emotions. His memory was also better with written words - with the exception of Ms. Kanou - and he could easily recall every curved letter both of his fathers had left him before. The words Blake had spoken would be difficult to keep in his mind, and he was sure he would one day forget the way her voice shook as she said goodbye.

(He remembers a case from a decade a girl. The arsonist (the girl who had an obsession with threes) who turned the door knob three times, twisted the ring on her finger the same, potassium, sulfur, and normal sugar (sugar, sugar) always the threes. The father, the son and the holy ghost were more her thing (he had a father, a somewhat mother, and the enigma mentor) but the same rule of three applied)

Indeed, threes were for important things. (But the pain would never stop at three)

~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~-

His mind always stopped after one. (No matter how hard he tried to stop)

In school growing up, William had to repeat the same sequence daily, one, two, three, and so on. It honestly never occurred to him to count any differently. Sure he’d been taught to count in fives and tens, but he would always end up counting in ones. It was favourite number after all, as the one represented everything about him. It represented the thing most important to him at the end of each and every day, who he looked out for number one. Himself, and no one else. He was the one of his one world.

He knew it was an arrogant way to look at things, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. William stopped after the one, always stopped after him. So, when he met Diana and fell in love, it was a hard reality. 

Suddenly there was a count of two, and when his wife showed him that stick with the telltale plus sign, the count got pushed up to three. It was hard, so incredibly hard as in his mind the count still stopped after one. It was a mantra he repeated in his head every morning, like he was in kindergarten once more. One, two, three. One, two, three. (Not like his son, the little abnormal one, who counted 543 multiplied by 734. At least until he came home one day and it was a mantra of threes of which he was envious. He wished he could do that, count in threes with the utmost of ease, and not have to force his mind past the one.)

When he left he left one letter. There on a single table was a single envelope with a single page and a single paragraph where only one word really mattered. Sorry. He was so desperately sorry and as he walked out of the door, he wishes he wasn’t so weak, that he could make his stupid mind count past one. (Like the three his son had started following, the number that rolled so easily off his young tongue but constantly got stuck in his own throat.)

It’s a surprise to him when he gets “married” again. He had such a hard time getting past himself last time. Before this marriage he’d looked her up, digged through her family history and sighed in relief when there was not one hint of mental illness. That he didn’t think he could get past. When his two daughters (and the number two scratched at his mind, taunting him, asking him if he could ever raise his count) were born he was relieved that his “wife” would look after him, allowing him to hide in his office most of the time, googling up his lost son. (One son, a perfect one. A much better number than two)

(The only thing he’d ever regretted (his one regret) in his life (his one life) was leaving his son (his one son) with his schizophrenic mother (his one true love) and walking out that door (his one home) not planning to ever return)

His one and only reunion from his old life came in the form of his one and only son. It was a shock when the kid had come into his office, asking about some murder. He was taken aback at the accusations flying from his kid’s mouth and his worry kicked in at the bags visible under his eyes

Spencer hadn’t changed much over the years, he was a little bigger, definitely taller, but he was still the same. He still rambled on about a million different topics, ready to talk your ear off with statistics if you didn’t stop him and he still counted in threes. It felt like a knife was twisted in his side when he realised that his son still counted in the number he could never get to. To hear that number fall from his lips like it was meant to.

After being accused of murder, or at the very least covering one up, William resented his son even more. Wondering how the hell he could of ever missed the little freak, but that quickly changed. His son, as shy and awkward as ever came to apologize, looking down at the floor barely speaking loud enough and tapping his fingers in a pattern of three which made him frown. He couldn’t help it, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around his son.

Spencer stiffened under his hold, and no arms came back around him during that duration, and it made William feel a surge of guilt as he pulled away. He had never liked to be touched much, at least not that he didn’t initiate himself, and as his father he should have remembered that. (Except he wasn’t really a father, was he. What father abandoned a child with schizophrenic mother? No, he was no father, not to Spencer, but maybe that could change)

Caring about someone else was hard, and it took a while to get used to it. He moved out of his home, divorcing his wife and promising to pay the child support, but he got a cat. It was a small creature, one that was forced to rely on him and him alone, no mother or teachers to look after him. The cat was William’s sole responsibility and it forced him to start taking care of something, to wake up and think of not himself, but someone else first thing. It was hard, slipping past the one, and it was awfully late too. 

He ended up going back to his first home, which he shared with his first love and first child, and slipped in through the back door. It was clean, even though he knew no one occupied the space in months, but he just walked around, remembering. 

The old house had the number one hundred and eleven, a series of three ones and it made William laugh at the irony. He only cared about the ones, but he realised too late what the ones really were. That the ones moved past just simply him.

As his cold view on the world started melting, he had started to realise the other things that came in ones, he had one son, and had one law degree, a single life. There were lots of ones, but there were also twos, his two daughters, his two wives, and his two law firm partners. There was one weekly call to his son, but he still picked up the phone and called a second time that week.

Maybe he should give other numbers a try. (But it wasn’t to be, he would end up back at one)

~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-~~-

Her mind always worked in twos. (The rally of voices following that count)

At first it was her mother’s voice, ever nagging in her ear, that would echo through her mind, guiding her. More often than not Diana didn’t agree with her mother, but she let herself be pushed anyways. It was Diana’s voice and her mother's, always there. A simple count of one, two that would rest in her mind for years to come. It was just those simple two voices ricocheting around her mind, fighting for control.

Then came the teachers, hovering overhead, telling her what to do, how to learn, and when she was away from home a different voice filled the void. The bus ride to and from school was always filled with aimless chatter from her peers, people she called friends, yet she had no desire to talk with them. Home was the worst, with the ever lessons and naggings, that followed her until she slept.

The pattern of twos was clear to her, and it was obvious that the second was always in control. Her mother, her teachers, her friends, her husband, her students, her schizophrenia, her son, her doctors, and her nurses. They had all at one point or another been in charge of her, a constant noise in her head being in control.

(Diana hated thinking that of her son (her genius boy), that he was just another person in control of her (he was so much more), but in her darkest times she can’t help it (can’t help the thoughts that come creeping in), can’t help but be mad at him (he drugged her, he fed her poison, he spied on her), and can’t help the screaming that comes out.)

Diana desired silence. A world free from thoughts and no voice (except her own of course) to fill up her head, but there always had been two. A teacher, a “friend”, her mother, and then her. Herself twice. It was never, me, myself, and I, after all there were only ever two voices. For Diana it was just, me and I. On the good days, the ones where she had some sort of control, it was I, with the me just whispering in her ear lies that would make her lose the game. The bad days she was me, where she saw some of what she was doing, but had no control. It was I and me, Diana and Diana, two different selves. She had finally escaped everyone else chattering in her ear, but now it was herself. 

Twos were even, a nice number that she drew all over her room, but it wasn't always that nice. Her mind's two sides, the calm she preferred and was becoming more and more of an appearance, and the paranoia, that seemed to start taking a backseat. It pained her that her son had been there for the years where the latter was more in control and she couldn't imagine trying to deal with her. Diana didn't typically remember the bad days, but she remembered the good ones where she saw bruises on him, ones too familiar to her fogged memory for the kids in his school to have caused. On the good days she wanted to cut off her hands so she wouldn't hurt him anymore, but it would be impossible. She could manage one, but two would be a feat, and she couldn't live with one hand. She had to have two. (Or none. As zero is also a nice even number.)

Twos were everywhere, even outside of the number of voices in her head. Like how her mental state has reversed from two good days for every week to only two bad. How her son had now not written a letter to her in two days, or how she had two different pill times, with two different meals. (And each time she swallowed the two pills without argument, trying to make up for the times she threw the two pills at her son.) Two was for the pairs of glasses Spencer had replaced in his senior year, both pairs broken by his classmates (Which he dealt with until shards of glass fell on his face at his graduation.) Finally two was for the weeks until she would go on vacation. Finally free from the confining space of the sanitarium. 

The two weeks had dragged on, with two visits from the doctor a day, and the nurses purposely breaking her comfortable routines, trying to make sure she wouldn’t have a psychotic break while on vacation. She wrote her son a letter, even though she hadn’t wrote him back in years, and she told him about her upcoming adventures and shared her wish that he could be with her. Diana hadn’t seen her son properly in years, and as much as she wanted the silence, she wished she could see her child even more. After all, a mother’s instinct never fails and after two days of no letters, she knew something was wrong. She yearned to see her son, hold him as he tells her everything, and run her fingers through his hair. Her fingers would tap out a pattern of two on his back, (even though when he always insisted it should be a pattern of three) matching his heart beat.

She sits by herself, looking off on to the Grand Canyon. Her nurse was waiting in the car, allowing her to have a few minutes alone. She laid down on her back, staring up at the clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight. Diana gave a small smile as she closed her eyes, listening to the silence.

At last the only voice in her head was her own. (But, this isn’t a fairytale,it didn’t last very long)


End file.
